


in my bedroom, i can't sleep

by kirkspocks



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Roommates, Slow Build, they live in a chill los angeles apartment and everything is fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-11 12:59:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7052842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirkspocks/pseuds/kirkspocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With a gentle pat to his thigh, Steve attempted to jostle Bucky awake. “Hey,” Steve whispered.</p><p>Bucky mumbled, then nuzzled his head against Steve’s shoulder. Steve’s heart fluttered.</p><p>“C’mon, Buck. You should get to bed,” Steve said.</p><p>When Steve stood up, Bucky grabbed at his shirt, as if he wanted to tug Steve back down so he could use him as a pillow. Bucky’s voice was rough, had a little drawl to it. “Can’t I just sleep on the couch?”</p><p>“You’ll complain about your neck hurting. And the sunrise waking you up. And the noise we’ll make once we’re all in the kitchen.”</p><p> </p><p> <br/>An apartment AU loosely based on the dynamics of FOX's New Girl. No prior knowledge of the show is necessary!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the apartment

**Author's Note:**

> "Love is a myth. 
> 
> Why is this Earth so big and I am so small?" 
> 
> \- Nick Miller

Almost four months ago, Steve Rogers moved into apartment 4D, an airy, sun-soaked loft with big windows overlooking the flat, drab streets of downtown Los Angeles. He’d found it online after he and Peggy decided to split up. The listing details had made Steve smile for the first time in two days—your room was a personal gym before we sold the treadmill trying to pay rent—so he’d emailed an application and hoped for the best.

He had some reservations about his housemates at first. They were a confident, outspoken, heavy-drinking group. Sam Wilson was a personal trainer, part of a team that trained the wealthy of LA and The Valley. Natasha Romanoff co-managed a modeling agency, having modeled herself a few years prior. Bucky Barnes worked as a bartender at The Griffin, a place just down the road.

Steve Rogers was a quiet elementary school teacher who hid in his new bedroom, still pitifully sad after breaking up with his long-term girlfriend.

But after a few weeks of getting to know Natasha and Sam and Bucky, Steve fell into a comfortable routine, as if he’d lived with them from the very start: cooking breakfast with Sam in the mornings before they both headed off to work, getting drinks with Natasha when Bucky was working at The Griffin. Netflix movies on the weekend evenings when none of them had the energy to go out, Chinese take-in almost once a week, drinking games that went on too long and got too competitive.

This particular morning, Steve could not get himself out of bed. School began promptly at eight, and Steve rarely—if ever—slept in, not wanting to set a bad example by coming in late to his own classroom. But he’d been unable to fall asleep the night before and had made cookies while Bucky sat in the kitchen, swinging his legs on the kitchen island’s high stool seats, drinking beer and playing on his phone. They sat quietly in the darkness of the kitchen, waiting for the oven timer to ding. Bucky had peeled a cookie off the baking sheet and burned his tongue on one, still hot from the oven. Steve had laughed and tried to pour Bucky’s beer into his mouth, just to cool him down, but he could barely see in the dim light and dribbled the liquid all over Bucky’s shirt. They’d both headed into bed around three a.m., Steve snickering and Bucky grumbling about ruining his t-shirt.

Steve allowed himself five more minutes of sleep. He woke up fifteen minutes later to the sound of Sam knocking on his bedroom door and saying, “Man, get up! I already started making eggs.”

Hastily, Steve rolled out of bed and dressed himself, then brushed his teeth beside Natasha in the bathroom. She stood in front of the mirror, the cubby overflowing with mouthwash and deodorant and hair product, and straightened her hair in careful movements.

“You’re up late,” she said.

Steve spit out his toothpaste. “Was up till two last night. Me and Buck made cookies.”

“No wonder I had a dream about a bakery. From scratch?”

“No way,” Steve said. He headed towards the hallway. “Bucky doesn’t have the patience for that.”

Natasha laughed. “Ah, neither do you.”

In the kitchen, Steve poured half-and-half into three mugs of coffee—one for himself, one for Sam, one for Nat—and buttered up the sourdough Sam had toasted. Natasha swept through, grabbed her mug and an apple with a breathless “Thanks, Steve,” and left with a slam of the door.

Sam spilled hot sauce over his eggs. “I don’t think you’ve woken up late once since you moved in.”

“Oh, come on,” Steve said. “Even Nat was on my case about that. It was only fifteen minutes!”

“I guess we just expect you to be the responsible one,” Sam said, grinning.

Steve smiled back, sipped his coffee. “I thought that was you.”

“Maybe, seeing as how I basically made you breakfast today,” Sam said. He pointed his fork at Steve’s nose. “Don’t expect that every morning. If you’re still asleep, I ain’t cooking you anything. This is supposed to be a collaborative effort.”

“It won’t happen again. Hopefully.” Steve chewed thoughtfully, then continued, “I have to submit a week-long lesson plan to the head of school today. For sex-ed. I don’t even know how I got roped into teaching it.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “That should be interesting. Aren’t your kids a little young?”

“Oh,” Steve said. He taught the third-grade, and they were certainly too young for a full sex-talk. “No. It’s not for my class. I’m going in to teach the fifth graders. But the head of school can be a little… picky. Old-fashioned.”

“You’re like, a dream teacher,” Sam said. “Everyone loves you. I wouldn’t be too worried.”

Steve flushed, ducked his head down. “I’m not. Really. But thanks.”

By the time Steve and Sam were nearly done eating, Bucky lumbered into the kitchen, looking mostly asleep. Around the house, Steve rarely saw Bucky wear anything but the previous day’s shirt and sweatpants. Bucky reached for Steve’s coffee, but he batted his hand away.

Bucky frowned. “How come you never make me breakfast, Steve?”

Steve sputtered a bit. “What?”

“Morning to you too, sunshine,” Sam said. “I made breakfast, actually. If you were up early enough to help, you’d be eating with us.”

“You really think I can wake up early enough to make breakfast at—what time is it—ten in the morning?”

“It’s seven-thirty,” Sam said, monotone.

“Seven-thirty?” Bucky’s eyes widened. He looked out the window, as if the sun would prove Sam wrong. “This is not a normal time for people to be awake. This is old people time. No wonder I’m still tired.”

“I can make you coffee, Buck.” Steve got out of his chair. The coffee machine only had a little leftover—less than a cup—but Steve fixed up the coffee how Bucky liked it, anyway, pouring an ample amount of cream into the mug.

“It’s a normal time for people who work,” Sam said, bringing dirty dishes over to the sink.

“I do work!”

“Which reminds me,” Sam continued. “You working tonight?”

Steve handed the mug of coffee—which was really mostly cream—over to Bucky. Their fingertips brushed. Bucky took a slow sip, kept his gaze on Steve. Then he said, smiling, “Yeah. Gotta get those tips.”

Sam smacked Bucky on the shoulder as he walked towards the front door. “Nobody’s givin’ you tips, mountain man. Get a haircut.”

“See you later,” Bucky said, cheery.

“See you. And don’t actually get a haircut, you look good.” Sam shut the door, gym bag in tow.

The apartment settled back into silence once Sam left. Steve cleaned up the kitchen a bit, not wanting to come home to a dirty house later in the day. Bucky sat on the edge of the dining table, eating a cookie from the night before. His eyes were fixed on Steve’s back, and Steve pretended not to notice, though his movements felt twitchy under Bucky’s gaze.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Bucky said, suddenly.

Steve grabbed his workbag from where it hung on one of the dining table’s wooden chairs. “No problem. If you want, I can start making more. I make a cup for Nat before she heads out every morning.”

“See, I knew you made breakfast for everyone but me.”

“You want me to make you eggs and toast?” Steve asked.

“That’d be nice.”

“Suppose you’d want me to deliver it to your room, too.”

Bucky perked up. “You’d do that?”

“No,” Steve scoffed. He bit back a smile and walked to the door. “I’ll see you later, Buck.”

“Ah, screw you,” Bucky called. “I’m going back to bed.”

* * *

 

Steve sat at the back of the faculty room. A few hours earlier, during a quick meeting, the head of school had gotten on his case about his lesson plan for the end-of-the-year health class. She hadn’t liked that Steve mentioned same-gender attraction, said that some parents would definitely be unhappy, then told him to re-write the lesson without it.

The art teacher, Ms. Maximoff, a sweet and surprisingly young woman, had heard about the conflict, and brought Steve a large iced coffee out of sympathy. No one else who’d heard seemed to care much. Steve was chewing on his straw, stuck in his own head, when he received a text from Bucky.

_hey. want to meet me and nat at the griffin tonight? sam might come too_

Steve blinked at his phone. The little grey bubble was the longest text in their message history, everything else being a simple “u home?” or “duw beer” which, apparently, in Bucky’s own abbreviated language, stood for “Do you want beer?”

Nervously, Steve tapped out a response, then deleted it and typed another. He felt stupid for being nervous, as if he needed to impress Bucky, who was probably at home on the couch, still in pajamas, doing nothing before his shift.

_Sure. Could use a drink._

Bucky responded within seconds.

_lol. bad day?_

  
_Something like that. I can be there around 8._

  
_alright i’ll see u later_

The rest of Steve’s day went smoothly, the kids behaving despite the usual restlessness that came with the summer season. He stayed at the elementary school long after his students had left, staring blankly at his neatly typed and highlighted lesson plan.

When Steve drove home, he turned the radio up a little too loud and, upon getting to the apartment, threw his work bag to the floor. Sam was home—probably taking a short break before meeting his next client—but Steve didn’t say hello. Instead, he rushed to the bathroom to take a quick shower, to rinse off and rest before meeting up with everyone at the bar.

Steve arrived at The Griffin around eight-fifteen. The dim-lit bar was decorated to the walls in a deep maroon, already busy with a steady hum of chatter and clinking glasses. People of all kinds—fresh-out-of-college hipsters, old men who looked like biker gang members—milled about in booths, or by the bar, or lined up against the walls. There was some kind of Thursday night deal that made the bar get crowded like this. Otherwise, the place was mostly quiet.

Alone at the counter, Steve waited for Bucky to return from his other customers. He was busy with a group of three or four girls, all of them smiling and laughing. Steve kept his gaze on the countertop, gently folding a napkin into smaller and smaller forms, distracting himself from the twinge of jealousy in the pit of his stomach. When he glanced up, finally, he saw Natasha walk in, pushing past the crowd.

“How’s it going, Rogers?” Natasha asked. She slid into the seat next to him and unslung her bag from her shoulder.

“Fine. Had a little trouble at work,” Steve admitted.

“Kids can be monsters, sometimes.”

“Ah,” Steve chuckled. “So can the administration.”

Natasha feigned a gasp. “Wow, Steve. You got in trouble? Didn’t think you had it in you.”

A foamy glass of beer slid over to Steve’s hands. “On the house,” Bucky said. “And Steve can definitely get in trouble. When he was little, he used to get into fights with kids on the schoolyard.”

“Oh, no way,” Natasha said. “How did I not know this? I can’t picture a little Steve Rogers. If I imagine him as a kid, I see him with those same big arms.”

Now Natasha and Bucky were laughing, and Steve said, “When I told Sam about that, I told him not to tell you guys, for this exact reason. And you’d be surprised if you saw pictures of me as a kid.”

Still, Steve smiled, and hid it behind his glass before he drank it. “Thanks for the beer, Buck.”

Bucky shrugged. “Just a thank-you for the coffee this morning, and a cheer-up gift for your bad day.”

“What the hell, Barnes? I had a rough day, too. Give me one,” Natasha said.

“If I gave you a free drink for every rough day you had, we’d be out of business,” Bucky said, leaning his elbows onto the countertop. “So what’d you do, Steve?”

Natasha chimed in. “Steal an extra chocolate milk from the cafeteria? Punch another bully?”

“Very funny,” Steve said. “I’m not in any trouble. The head of school just didn’t like my lesson plan for a health class, that’s all.”

A warm hand gripped Steve’s shoulder, and when Steve turned, he saw Sam smiling bright, still in work-out clothes from earlier in the day. They got rowdy in their greeting for him, rousing up another wave of noise in the bar.

Sam leaned up beside Steve, one arm around his shoulders in a kind of half-hug. “What kinda disagreements can someone have about a fifth-grade health class?”

Natasha’s brows furrowed. “Right. Isn’t that when you teach the basics? You know, what does what, what goes where…”

“You can say the words, Nat, we’re adults,” Bucky said.

Steve sipped his beer, then said, “It’s because I mentioned same-gender attraction. Not anything specific, just the possibilities of a boy liking a girl, or a girl liking a girl, or a boy liking a boy. I thought it was important to let kids know that those feelings are okay.”

“I wish they taught me about gay sex in fifth grade,” Bucky snickered, fixing up a Manhattan—Natasha’s favorite—behind the bar.

Sam reached over and lightly swatted Bucky on the head. “Shut up. And get me a Blue Moon.”

Natasha sighed. “Really? The head of school—an educator—got upset about teaching kids that liking the same gender is okay?”

“I was surprised, too.” Steve finished up his beer, stared down at the leftover droplets at the bottom of the glass. “She’s worried that parents might get upset and cause an uproar.”

“That’s stupid,” Bucky said. He brought a Blue Moon to Sam and pushed the Manhattan towards Natasha. “It’s not like what you’re teaching is factually incorrect. I say fuck ‘em. Keep the lesson plan, Steve.”

“That is a terrible idea, Barnes, and you know it,” Sam said, pointing his beer bottle at him accusingly. “Flat-out ignoring your boss is asking for trouble. Just talk to her, make a compromise.”

Steve hummed in thought. Natasha said, “Or you could go rogue. You know, teach them what you’re supposed to, but outside the classroom, give them the whole truth.”

“What? No. That’s weird. Don’t do that,” Sam said.

Bucky groaned. “Who cares? Just teach the kids what’s right. You gotta stick to your guns, or whatever.”

“Thanks, Buck,” Steve said, smiling a bit.

“In all seriousness,” Natasha said, “you should try to compromise. Sam’s right. Talk to the head of school, tell her why you think what you’re doing is right.”

“I doubt she’ll listen,” Steve said. “She’s always been worried about how parents view the school, because it affects the donations we get. But I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

“Good. You don’t need your stubbornness gettin’ you fired,” Sam said. He moved away from Steve, untangling himself from his broad shoulders, and sat beside Natasha at the bar. “Anyway, the girls at work made fun of me all day for tripping over some weights in the gym, so I need another drink.”

“Sorry to hear that, big guy,” Natasha laughed. “We all had shitty days. I had to kick a creepy photographer out of the building. Send me another Manhattan, Barnes.”

Bucky stretched, flung the little black towel he held over his shoulder. “Another Blue Moon, one Manhattan, and,” Bucky pointed at Steve, “a rum and coke, extra lime?”

“That’s it,” Steve said.

Bucky turned back around to work on their drinks. He was surprisingly graceful behind the bar, grabbing bottles without looking, fixing up a drink with his right hand while cracking open a beer with his left. There’d been a few times when Bucky had broken a glass, sure, but right now he seemed glowing, showing off a rare and genuine smile, lit up by the lights behind the display of bottles.

“You might as well be our personal bartender, Barnes,” Natasha said. “No need to bother with anyone else.”

“No way,” Bucky said, placing down their drinks. “I get much better tips from actual customers. Speaking of which, I should probably, uh, attend to those customers before the manager kicks my ass.”

* * *

They arrived back at the apartment early—only ten p.m.—because they couldn't hear each other talk over the noise of the bar, and because they all had work the next day, and because Bucky couldn't hang around them for more than five seconds before a customer got angry.

Sam and Nat said goodnight and went to their bedrooms. Steve tried to relax in his room, too, but his head swam with thoughts about his day at work, the suggestions everyone had given him. Knowing any attempt to sleep would prove fruitless, Steve took his sketchpad and pencils out from his bookshelf and settled onto the couch to draw until his mind quieted.

Crickets chirped somewhere outside the living room windows. The apartment’s air conditioning gently hummed, and the floorboards creaked every now and then with the weight of Sam or Nat’s footsteps.

Eventually, after Steve had nearly finished a rough sketch of his old bedroom—the one he’d shared with Peggy—the front door opened. A stream of fluorescent light filtered into the dim living room, with Bucky’s silhouette in the doorway. He toed off his shoes, dropped his keys into the bowl on the table, and shut the door.

“Hey,” Bucky said softly, approaching Steve. “Everyone else asleep?”

“Think so,” Steve said. “Just you and me.”

Bucky splayed himself out on the couch. Steve looked down at his paper and shaded in little shadows. Then Bucky sat up, leaning over to look at the sketchpad in Steve’s lap.

“I didn't know you drew,” Bucky said. He watched, but Steve’s hand went stiff and hesitant under Bucky’s gaze, and then he put down his pencil. “Can I look? You can say no, if it's private.”

Steve handed the sketchbook over. “Sure, go ahead. Nothing too good in there, though.”

“I doubt that,” Bucky said. The pages fluttered, seeming loud in the empty quiet of the room. Steve and Bucky sat close, arms touching, body heat radiating a little too hot for the weather outside. Bucky smelled like good, rich beer and sweat.

“Who’s this?” Bucky asked, tilting the sketchbook towards Steve.

“My, uh.” Steve coughed. “Peggy. My ex.”

Bucky hummed in thought. “She’s pretty. Mind if I ask…?”

“She wanted to move back to London,” Steve said, in a tone that sounded like he’d prepared and recited this exact talk a million times, even though he hadn’t. “We’d only been here, in LA, for a year. Came from New York after being there together for a year, too. I was sick of moving and changing jobs. She wasn’t. We both agreed breaking up was for the best.”

“Fuck,” Bucky said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Steve said. “She’s still in town, for now. She wasn’t planning on moving for a couple of months, but I just—it made us realize that we want different things.”

With his left hand, Bucky carefully flipped through the sketchbook, and settled on a page full of little drawings, of mundane items around the apartment: a bottle of beer, a lamp with a slightly crooked shade, a small glass bottle with two lavender flowers in it. Bucky traced the lines of the lavender with his metal thumb.

“That was it, huh?” Bucky murmured. “After a whole two years. Dunno how you get over something like that.”

Steve sunk deeper into the couch, until he was almost curled up into himself. Bucky’s question stung. “I’m getting there,” Steve said. “It’s hard, but—I’ve been getting there. You guys help. And it was an amicable break up, better than I could’ve asked for. Sometimes I just miss her.”

“I get that,” Bucky said. He sunk down next to Steve and put his feet up on the coffee table.

“You’re only the second person I’ve talked to about this. It’s weird. I’m not used to—emotions. Talking about them, I mean. I’m used to feeling actual emotions.”

Bucky chuckled at Steve’s stumbling words. “You talked to Sam about it, I bet.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s a good person to talk to,” Bucky said. He yawned. “He’s helped me with stuff, too. He even led a therapy group a while back.”

“Sam’s told me about it before. Said that’s why I should talk to him when I’m feeling down, instead of you and Natasha.”

“Good idea on his part. I don’t know anything. I’d probably just make you feel worse.”

Steve snorted. “Don’t talk like that, Buck.”

“What? It’s true.”

“Well, I don’t feel any worse now. So you’re doing an okay job.”

The clock read one a.m., the blinking colon between the numbers mesmerizing Steve. He still loved Peggy, enough that their break-up left a physical ache, enough to hide trinkets from their time together—photobooth print-outs, ticket stubs, handwritten sticky notes—in a box beneath his bed. But Steve hadn’t lied when he told Bucky that moving into this apartment had helped him, that he was moving on. The ache had faded, had been replaced by a soft, rose-colored melancholy.

Steve felt Bucky’s head drop, gently, onto his shoulder. The slow, even breathing made it clear that Bucky had fallen asleep. He’d looked dead tired since breakfast, had been at the bar since five p.m., and was already stifling yawns by the time Steve, Nat, and Sam arrived at the bar. They all acted as if Bucky didn’t have a job—it certainly seemed that way in the daytime—but the exhaustion in his eyes proved otherwise. How did he put up with all their mocking? It’d wear Steve down to the bone.

With a gentle pat to his thigh, Steve attempted to jostle Bucky awake. “Hey,” Steve whispered.

Bucky mumbled, then nuzzled his head against Steve’s shoulder. Steve’s heart fluttered.

“C’mon, Buck. You should get to bed,” Steve said.

When Steve stood up, Bucky grabbed at his shirt, as if he wanted to tug Steve back down so he could use him as a pillow. Bucky’s voice was rough, had a little drawl to it. “Can’t I just sleep on the couch?”

“You’ll complain about your neck hurting. And the sunrise waking you up. And the noise we’ll make once we’re all in the kitchen.”

Steve held out his hand, and Bucky grabbed it to lift himself off the couch, the metal surprisingly warm in Steve’s grip. They walked down the hallway together, and Steve couldn’t help but laugh at the way Bucky wobbled, clearly still half-asleep, his hair mussed up on one side. He practically slammed into his door upon opening it, grumbled a “G’night, Steve,” then locked himself away. In the quiet of the hallway, Steve said, “Night, Buck,” and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face.

Steve huddled beneath his sheets, finally comfortable with the windows open wide and his bedside fan on. The weight of Bucky’s head on Steve’s shoulder seemed imprinted on his skin. As he dozed off, he wondered why so much of their time together was spent in the dark, in the late hours of the night. Why lately, neither of them could get to sleep.

* * *

 

Sometime during the night, Peggy had texted Steve about a Starbucks opening up by their old apartment, replacing the hole-in-the-wall coffee and donut shop they used to go to. Steve put his phone down, buried his face in his pillow, and slept for an extra five minutes. They hadn’t texted in some time, and Steve felt conflicted about responding for a reason he couldn’t quite discern. He tried to puzzle it out, but the only thing that came to mind was his talk with Bucky last night. Something about the way Bucky had hung onto his shirt, the drowsy slur in his speech.

Sam knocked at Steve’s door. “Steve?” He sounded a bit worried. “You awake? Don’t make this a habit.”

Steve lifted his head from his pillow and flung off his sheets. “I’m not,” he called back.

Sam and Steve fried eggs and toasted wheat bread and peeled some oranges. Steve made four coffees and handed one off to Natasha as she breezed through the kitchen. Although Steve waited an extra five minutes after Sam left, Bucky never emerged from his bedroom to say good morning or grab the coffee Steve made. With a huff, Steve grabbed his keys and, against his better judgment, sped on his way to work.

As politely as he could manage, Steve explained to the head of school that he would not change his lesson-plan for the health class. The head of school dismissed him, claiming she had another more important meeting to attend to and would talk to Steve after the weekend. Steve was glad he spent his day with children, who were naive and kind-hearted and did not yet care about money or politics or angry parents, who smiled and giggled so often that Steve forgot about his wretched mood, if only for a little while.

Back in the apartment, Steve shut himself away in his room. He sat on his bed and stared at his phone’s screen, the blinking cursor beneath Peggy’s text from this morning.

_a starbucks is replacing that cafe we used to go to! can you believe it?_

Steve’s stomach twisted as he typed out a response.

_Their coffee was pretty terrible, so I’m not too surprised. Maybe we can meet for there for a frappuccino sometime, then?_

The phone made its tell-tale sound indicating that the message had sent. Peggy had a secret sweet-tooth and would hesitantly order a mocha frappucino with whipped cream on hot days. Steve immediately regretted sending the text and flopped onto his back. A few minutes later:

_i’d love that! but we’ll have to wait until it’s done with construction._

Steve closed his eyes and sighed. There was a slight pain behind his eyelids, a sting, the kind he got whenever he was exhausted.

It was dark when Steve woke up—he didn’t even remember dozing off—and he had two texts from Sam asking if he wanted to have some of the pizza Nat had brought home. The third text read, “I left some slices in the fridge for you.”

Hesitantly, Steve climbed out of bed, his head pounding with an after-sleep headache. He went to the kitchen and nibbled at a slice of pizza until his stomach growled like an afterthought, like it’d forgotten to be hungry. Then he piled the other four leftover slices onto a plate.

Steve sat alone in the living room and turned on a few lamps, even lit a candle, hoping the brightness would cheer him up somehow. _When Harry Met Sally_ droned on the TV, regularly interrupted by gaudy late-night commercials. It helped Steve’s mind go blank, like meditative static.

When Sam appeared in the room, Steve jolted out of his trance and rubbed his eyes.

“Just getting some water,” Sam said. “You’re up late.”

Steve checked his phone. It was two a.m. “Yeah,” Steve rasped. He coughed to clear his throat. “Took a nap after work, and now I can’t sleep.”

Sam sat beside him on the couch, their shoulders nearly touching, and studied the screen. The room changed colors with each camera switch, flashing in a slow and calming manner. “Nice choice,” Sam said.

“I wasn’t really paying attention.”

He hummed. “Been having one of those weeks?”

Steve searched for the remote on the coffee table—hiding amongst the mess of earthy-scented candles, paper napkins, torn magazines, empty mugs—and shut off the TV.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Peggy texted me, and we talked for a bit. Been a little rough lately, that’s all.”

“I know,” Sam said. “I can tell by how often you’ve been in your room these past few days. And you’ve been sleeping in late. And you’ve been extra annoyed when you come home from work.”

“Didn’t realize it was that obvious.”

“Maybe not to Bucky or Nat,” Sam said.

Steve hadn’t told either of him that he got like this. Bucky was strangely overprotective, as if Steve couldn’t handle things himself, and explaining it would only make Bucky worry, act weird around him. Natasha probably had her suspicions—she knew almost everything about everyone—but she never pressed the issue, only acted a little more gentle around Steve when she noticed he was down.

Sam sighed. “Just wanted to say. Wallowing around in your room isn’t gonna make you feel any better.”

The apartment was quiet, sleepy. Steve looked at his hands. With the TV off, the only light came from the low-light lamps and the candle, making Sam’s face glow a deep, electric orange.

Sam placed a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “That’s not to say you shouldn’t take some time for yourself, to process things, especially if it’s about Peggy. I just don’t want you to fall back into old habits.”

“I don’t even know if it’s about Peggy anymore.” Steve sniffed and rubbed at his nose. “And what old habits?”

“When you first moved in, you barely left your room. Unless me or Nat yanked you outta there.”

“You guys were intimidating,” Steve explained, finally cracking a small smile. “And I was almost certain Bucky hated me.”

Sam laughed, revealing the small gap between his two front teeth. “He didn’t hate you, he just had some… thoughts.”

“Like what?” Steve asked. He licked his lips.

“Ask him, not me,” Sam said. He patted Steve’s shoulder, then stood and stretched. “Okay. It’s late. Promise me you’ll get out tomorrow, just for a little. We can work out at the gym downstairs, if you want. Alright?”

“Alright.” Steve heaved himself off the couch. In the darkness of the kitchen, he watched Sam’s silhouette fill up two glasses of water. When Sam strolled back over, he handed a glass to Steve.

“Hydrate,” Sam said. Then he disappeared down the hallway, his door clicking shut.

Steve huffed a laugh, stared down at the hall, and took a small sip of water. Back in his bedroom, under his sheets, he fell asleep easy as anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this began as a silly headcanon and spiraled out of control. really, i'd been procrastinating by watching new girl, and my brain was like, "bucky barnes is nick miller."
> 
> thank you to alex and bel for all the help they've given me with this, and for proof-reading it like, 500 times.
> 
> catch me @ kirkspocks.tumblr.com!


	2. heat wave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Steve left his room, he was greeted by three half-naked housemates. Natasha lounged on the couch, a big glass of ice water in one hand and her phone in the other. She wore a sports bra and boy-shorts. “Welcome to the party,” she said.
> 
> "Good, you're awake," Sam called. An empty ice cube tray and carafe filled with ice sat in front of him on the kitchen island. "We're trying to make popsicles."
> 
> A flimsy ice cube tray snapped in half in Bucky's hands. "Shit."

The first thing Steve heard upon waking was shouting from the living room and the whirring of his bedside fan. In a sweat-soaked haze during the night, he’d flipped it on. There'd been a heat wave this week—no surprise for summer in LA—but the apartment had never felt so much like an oven. Outside his open windows, Steve heard Saturday morning traffic, the distant chitchat from people strolling to brunch.

When Steve left his room, he was greeted by three half-naked housemates. Natasha lounged on the couch, a big glass of ice water in one hand and her phone in the other. She wore a sports bra and boy-shorts. “Welcome to the party,” she said.

"Good, you're awake," Sam called. An empty ice cube tray and carafe filled with ice sat in front of him on the kitchen island. "We're trying to make popsicles."

A flimsy ice cube tray snapped in half in Bucky's hands. "Shit."

What's going on?” Steve asked. He tugged at his t-shirt. “Why is it so hot?"

"A/C broke," Sam said, snatching the broken ice tray from Bucky. "Happened once or twice last summer, too. Perks of living in an old apartment. Barnes, how did you even do this? Who breaks things like this?"

Steve felt sweat bead on the nape of neck, tickling him on its descent. "Do we know when it'll be fixed?"

From her spot on the couch, Natasha said, "I talked to the landlord. He said it won’t be fixed till Monday. I got bagels, by the way."

The apartment was bright and stuffy, the hot morning sun gleaming off the hardwood floors and steel appliances in the kitchen. Somehow, despite his late night and the sweltering heat, Steve felt clear-headed, more focused than he had in days.

Steve walked to the kitchen island, pushed aside the orange juice and bottle of tequila so that he could spread butter over a fresh bagel. While he ate, he watched Bucky mix the two drinks together and carefully pour them into the remains of the ice tray.

“Only you could fuck up making popsicles,” Sam said.

“I didn’t mess up anything,” Bucky said, spilling onto the tabletop as he poured the mixture. “A broken ice cube tray won’t make ‘em taste bad.”

Sam playfully flicked the metal prosthetic of Bucky’s shoulder, then wiped up the spreading orange juice. “Careful. You don’t wanna get rusty.”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky said. “That one really hurt, Sam. You’re losing your touch.”

Steve scoffed. Their bickering sounded more like an old married couple’s than that of two roommates who genuinely had beef with one another. In fact, over the months Steve had been here, it seemed to become more gentle.

“Steve,” Bucky said, “how are you wearing all those clothes? It’s hotter than hell in here.”

Steve glanced down at his sweatpants and t-shirt, the odd one out in the apartment. “Dunno. I didn’t get invited to the underwear party.”

The kitchen returned to silence as Bucky spread saran-wrap over the ice cube tray and Sam placed toothpicks into each section. Steve’s gaze was stuck on Sam and Bucky, on their bare chests and strong arms. Sam was lean, built in a way that made it obvious he trained and ran and ate right. Bucky was much broader, almost Steve’s size, but with less definition and a softer stomach.

At some point, Natasha had joined Steve at the kitchen island. She gave him a look, pursing her lips. He stared back, unsure of her implication.

Natasha turned away from Steve, then said, “These better taste good, Barnes.”

“They will,” Bucky said. “I'm a bartender. I know what I'm doing.”

“You've messed up my drinks enough times for me to not believe you,” she said.

“C’mon. You love my Manhattans. I put extra whiskey in ‘em just for you.”

Later, after eating a second bagel and concocting watery iced coffee for everyone, Steve retired to his room. He took off his shirt, comfortable in the privacy. The fan whirred loudly, blasting on its strongest setting, but provided little relief from the summer heat blazing through the open windows.

Steve took the time to sit below his window and sketch. He drew more naked forms than usual. When his hand began to cramp, Steve pulled out a book and read, the thin pages flitting beneath the air of the fan.

A knock sounded on his door almost two hours later. “You decent?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah,” Steve said. He dog-eared his page and tossed the book aside. “Come in.”

When Bucky came in, he stared at Steve for a few seconds, then said, “Uh. The popsicles are ready, if you want some.”

Bucky looked a bit flushed, but Steve chalked it up to the heat. He padded down the hallway, still shirtless, and grimaced when he noticed how even the floors felt warm and sticky.

Back in the living room, Natasha stood in front of the TV, chewing a toothpick. She smiled wide when she caught sight of Steve, scanning her eyes along his body. “Ooh, Rogers. If Sam was here, you two could compare biceps. Or abs.”

Steve ducked his head down to hide his reddening face, though he still had to bite back a smile. “Quit it, Nat.”

“What’s the matter with you?” Natasha asked, suddenly. Steve turned and saw Bucky’s panicked expression.

Bucky sputtered, then collapsed onto the couch and ran his fingers through his sweat-damp hair. “What? Nothing. Stop lookin’ at me like that.”

“Okay.” Natasha narrowed her eyes. She pulled the toothpick out of her mouth and twirled it between her fingers. “These aren’t bad, Barnes.”

Steve sat down on the couch beside Bucky and plucked one from the ice tray, examined the little orange cube. “Where is Sam, anyways?”

“I think he fell asleep in his room,” Natasha said. She took another popsicle to chew on. “Better catch up, you two. This is my third one.”

“It’s a little too early for me to be drinking. Even in popsicle form,” Steve said.

Ice cracked between Bucky’s teeth as he ate one popsicle whole, but he leaned over and ate the one Steve held, too, his mouth hovering close to Steve’s index finger and thumb.

“More for me, then,” he said through a mouthful of ice. “It’s Saturday, it’s hot, and I’m getting drunk.”

“That’s the spirit,” Natasha said, eating another. She filtered through the shows available on HBO. “You guys wanna watch Sex and the City?”

Steve settled into the couch and scoffed, firmly ignoring his fluttering heartbeat after Bucky’s lips had been so close to his fingers. “You watch Sex and the City?”

“Everyone likes Sex and the City,” Bucky said. He pulled toothpicks out of two more popsicles and shoved both of them into his mouth. “You’re Charlotte, Steve.”

“Okay,” Steve said. “Maybe slow down on those popsicles, Buck.”

The show’s theme began to play. Natasha asked, “Am I Sam or Miranda?”

“Sam is Sam,” Bucky said.

“I think Sam is more Carrie.”

Steve had lost them. He watched the episode for a few minutes, but had trouble focusing once the two began arguing over whether the popsicles were worth it, or if Bucky should've made strawberry margaritas instead.

“First of all, I don’t have the money to buy strawberries. Do I look like a rich person, Nat?”

“What the hell are you talking about? Strawberries are like, three dollars.”

“Exactly. Look, these are better and easier than margaritas.” Bucky had one in his right hand, melting there. He held it up to Steve. “Here, try it.”

“I think I'm good,” Steve said.

Bucky remained adamant. “Before it melts. Just try.”

His smile was sweet and sticky, and sweat beaded above his lip. Bucky held his palm out like an offering, like he wanted Steve to eat from it. And he wore nothing but boxers, a pair that he filled out well, a little tight in the thighs.

Steve swallowed. Gingerly, he plucked the melting cube from Bucky’s hand and ate it. It tasted good, despite the strong kick of tequila, and was cold enough to make Steve’s teeth hurt.

Bucky grinned, picked out another for himself, then sucked it off the toothpick. “Good, right?”

“Yeah,” Steve croaked.

“Jesus,” Natasha said. “Remind me to break out the No Nail Oath.”

Steve had forgotten Natasha was there, seated on his other side. “The what?”

“Nah.” Bucky hiccuped. “Nothing's happening, Nat.”

“Doesn't matter,” she said. “Everyone's gotta sign it.”

The ice tray was nearly empty, and Steve wondered just how much tequila Bucky had used. Despite the plug-in fan loudly blowing towards them, the room felt unbearably hot. Steve had an urge to peel himself off the couch, away from Bucky’s splayed open body, and follow Sam’s lead by taking a cool-off nap until evening.

Bucky lay on his back, halfway off the couch. “Then just get the contract now. Sam has it in his room somewhere.”

Natasha leapt towards Sam’s room. Steve stared down at Bucky, who stretched and lazily grinned up at him. Bristling, Steve turned his attention back to the TV.

“What is this?” Steve asked, keeping his gaze off Bucky.

“What’s what.”

“The contract Nat’s getting.”

“It’s stupid,” Bucky sighed.

Sam stormed into the living room, clutching a worn piece of paper, with Natasha trailing after him. “I can’t believe y’all woke me up for this. I was sleeping. This whole room smells like alcohol.”

“I could hear you from the hallway, Barnes. Stop saying it’s stupid,” Natasha scolded. “It’s important. A staple of the apartment.” 

Sam sat on the floor beside Steve’s feet and flattened the wrinkled contract onto the coffee table. “We all signed the No Nail Oath just after we moved in,” he said. “It basically says that no one can kiss or have sex with another resident of this apartment.”

“Just say ‘nail,’ Sam. None of us can nail each other,” Natasha said.

Steve glanced over the short, typed contract. Each of their signatures were messily signed at the bottom.

 

 

 

> _We the undersigned agree never to nail, make out with, or sexually touch our fellow roommates, unless the sexual relationship has been previously voted on and officially sanctioned by each roommate currently residing in apartment 4D._

“Wow.” Steve signed the bottom of the paper. “Voted on?”

“Seemed like the best way to handle it. I didn’t want either of them thinking they were going to sleep with me. Also,” Natasha said, pointing at Sam, “Sam and Bucky always look like they’re two seconds away from an angry make out session, and I didn’t want everything to get all weird.”

“No, no,” Sam said, putting his hands up defensively. “My standards are much higher than that.”

“Really? I dunno, I can see it,” Steve said. “You two already act like a bitter married couple.”

“That’s two votes sanctioning your relationship, if you ever wanna go for it,” Natasha said.

As Bucky continued inching off of the couch, headed towards the floor, he smiled at Natasha and Steve. “Thanks, guys.”

“In your dreams, Barnes,” Sam said.

On the floor, Bucky stretched out as if making a snow angel, and closed his eyes. Though Sam and Nat chattered, Steve couldn’t hear them, busy watching the slow rise and fall of Bucky’s stomach, the barely visible outline of his ribs, the dusting of hair below his navel. His hair fanned out behind his head, and Steve trailed his eyes along his left arm, the thick scar near the prosthetic, the little blue hair-tie around his wrist.

Steve sighed. “Anyways, you guys don’t really need to worry about me.”

“Sure, Steve,” Natasha said. “This is just a precaution.”

“Alright,” Sam said, looking down at Bucky, who seemed to be asleep. “I think the heat’s getting to him. Go take a cold shower before your arm overheats or something.”

From below, Bucky said, “Maybe I will. Wanna join me?”

With a laugh, Sam reached over and grabbed the last popsicle out of the ice tray. “Nope.”

* * *

It was Sunday evening and the apartment still sweltered. The sky itself looked burnt, hazy with smog, bathing Steve’s bedroom in a gentle amber.

His fan had stopped working. After rifling through his bedroom looking for spare batteries, Steve gave up, cursed himself for not buying a plug-in fan, and stepped into the pair of boxers he’d tugged off in a heat-induced fit.

Steve pounded on Bucky’s door and was granted entrance with a grumbled, groggy, “Come in.” The room was so dark that Steve stumbled over something after opening the door. A floor-lamp stood in the corner, lit on the lowest setting, revealing Bucky in his bed, wearing boxer-briefs—tight little grey ones, so Steve looked away—and his face smashed into his pillow. All his sheets were piled up on the floor.

“You live in a cave,” Steve said. He sat on the edge of the bed.

“Thanks,” Bucky said. “Do you think putting ice cubes in my bed is a bad idea?”

Steve snorted. “A horrible idea. I just came to see if you have any batteries.”

"Even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to find them,” Bucky said. He raised his eyebrows. “What do you need batteries for?”

“My fan.”

“Oh.”

“What were you thinking?” Steve lay himself down onto Bucky’s bed, stared up at the ceiling. “Your room’s a lot cooler than mine.”

“That’s because I keep it dark. But don’t fall asleep in here. I don’t need the extra body heat.”

“Too early to sleep,” Steve said, though the unbearable warmth of the house felt like a blanket, lulling him into a lethargy whenever he stepped inside.

“I was napping,” Bucky sighed. “I picked up a late shift. The bar has good air conditioning.”

Steve hummed. “Maybe I’ll join you, just to get out of this house.”

“Be my guest,” Bucky said. “Hey. What’re you gonna do about your sex class?”

“It’s called sex-ed, Buck. And I don’t know. My meeting is tomorrow.”

Bucky lifted his head up and scooted towards Steve. “You don’t want to compromise with that principal, I can tell.”

“The last time we spoke, she said that the parents will already be freaked out by a male teacher giving their kids the talk, and bringing up homosexuality will only make it worse. She said it in this awful, dismissive tone.” Steve groaned. “I hate the school’s administration, Bucky. I can’t stand them. I can’t stand her.”

“Then quit,” Bucky said, giving a little shrug.

“Are you serious? No. I can’t. Sam and Nat—what would they think?”

“Don’t worry about what they think,” Bucky said. “Do what’s best for you. They’ll understand. What, you think they’ll kick you outta the house just because you’re standing up for yourself?”

“No. Because I won’t have rent money.”

“I barely have rent money. You’re fine.”

Steve snickered. Then Bucky continued, “What is it, then? Tell me. You’re real upset about all this. I mean, I get it, the principal is homophobic, she’s awful, but you’ve mentioned problems with her before.”

Steve rolled onto his stomach, looked over at Bucky. “I dunno. This feels like the last straw, I guess.”

Bucky pursed his lips. “Uh-huh. And?”

“Okay. Fine,” Steve huffed. “It’s just—looking back, I wish that I had someone who told me that it was okay to think boys and girls were, you know, attractive. Back then I thought something was wrong with me.”

“I know the feeling,” Bucky said.

“Right. Growing up was hard, and I got bullied, and maybe it would’ve been a little easier if I had known that those feelings were normal. If I had someone to talk to about it. Maybe I’d’ve been a little less lonely. I mean, that’s what teachers are for. To help kids figure things out.”

Bucky looked over. “You were bullied?”

Steve bit at his bottom lip, worried it. “Yeah. Got into fights.”

“Wait—I didn’t think—” Bucky sat up. “When me and Nat were poking fun, I thought Sam was exaggerating. Because you’re—look at you! You’re huge! Who would’ve bullied you?”

With a laugh, Steve covered his face, flushing a bit. “I was real tiny as a kid, Buck. You don’t know the half of it.”

“Bullshit.”

“Got sick all the time, too. I was always talking shit, like I was already big and tough. I made an easy target.”

“Ah, fuck. I feel like an asshole. If it makes you feel any better, a lot of the boys at my school gave me shit about this.” Bucky flicked at his own left arm. “The girls liked me just fine, at least.”

“‘Course they did.”

“Shut up,” Bucky said. “And I was better at baseball than any of ‘em. So it wasn’t too rough. Sorry, Steve.”

“It’s fine. I picked the fights half of the time,” Steve said. He thought for a moment. “More than half.”

Bucky cracked a smile. “Well, don’t give up now. You wanna quit, you quit. After all that fighting, don’t let the bullies win.”

A lump formed in Steve’s throat, then, made it hard for him to swallow. He clenched his fist, pressed his nails into his palm, let it sting to distract him from the warmth spreading in his stomach, in his chest. “Thanks, Buck.”

“We both lived in New York, didn’t we? You think we would’ve been friends when we were kids?”

“Maybe,” Steve said. “I’d beat up anyone who made fun of your arm.”

“No, way. You just said you were tiny and sick. I’d be the one protecting you,” Bucky argued.

“With one arm?”

“I had a prosthetic! It just wasn’t metal yet, is all.”

“I could handle myself.” Steve grinned. “But I wouldn’t mind the backup.”

In a sudden, brief motion, Bucky leaned over Steve, stared straight down at him. At his lips. Steve heard his own heart pounding in his ears. Without the steady noise of the air conditioning, Steve heard everything in the house: tinny music coming from Nat’s room, the TV in the living room, Bucky’s breathing, the slow creak of the mattress below them.

Bucky said, “I gotta get ready.”

“Okay,” Steve breathed. Bucky climbed over him, got off the bed, and picked up a pair of jeans from the floor. As he put them on, sliding the jeans up over his ass, Steve confirmed that Bucky’s underwear was, in fact, much too small.

“Are those Sam’s briefs?”

“Maybe,” Bucky said, turning around and zipping up his fly. The sound made Steve shiver, and he felt ridiculous for it. “I found them in the dryer. Why?”

“They’re Calvin Klein. Sam wears Calvin Klein.”

“How do you know that?” Bucky asked.

“We work out together! I’ve just noticed. You know, the band of them has the name...”

“Okay, pal,” Bucky said, pulling on a wrinkled shirt. He picked up a deodorant stick from his nightstand. “Maybe stop checkin’ me and Sam out so much.”

“I’m not—” Steve knew his face went red, could feel it burning up to his ears.  “Maybe you should stop wearing other people’s underwear.”

“It’s that or wear none at all.”

“You do that already, anyways.”

Childishly, Steve pinched Bucky’s arm as he stepped over the clothing and trinkets littered on his floor, reveling in his little yelp of surprise. Steve joined Sam in the living room, where excited sports announcers spoke over the squeaking shoes of a basketball game. Sam sat in the armchair, a cold beer in hand, condensation dripping down onto his wrist. Steve grabbed his own from the fridge and cracked it open.

“Had enough of Bucky?” Sam said, smiling as he took a sip of his beer.

Steve flopped down onto the couch and put his feet up onto the coffee table. By the doorway, Bucky slipped on his shoes and, after grabbing his keys, gave Steve a small wave, then left quietly. A small part of Steve wanted to take up Bucky’s offer to join him down at the bar, with its cold drinks and working air conditioning, but he hesitated. He wanted to push away what he’d felt when Bucky said all those kind words, when he told Steve not to give into his bullies, when he’d hovered over him, almost teasing, each of them staring a little too much.

Steve sighed. “Something like that.”

* * *

The air conditioning was up and running again by Monday afternoon. Steve came home later than usual, when the sun just beginning to lower in the sky, to an empty apartment. The cold blast of air was a blessing in comparison to the muggy corridor. There were no shoes by the front door, no keys except his own on the entryway table, no music playing or TV chattering. Everything felt still, quiet. Steve shrugged off his workbag, let it fall to the floor, and headed to the bathroom.

Steve’s day had been nice—mostly because his dreaded meeting with the head of school was cancelled at the last second—but working with kids had always left him feeling grimy, with all the glue and sticky fingers he had to deal with. And now that the apartment wasn’t ninety degrees both inside and out, he could take a hot shower.

The bathroom was the strangest thing about the apartment, with its one oversized shower, two sinks, two urinals, a soap and paper towel dispenser, and a toilet stall. It certainly belonged in a college dorm. Still, it was useful for busy weekday mornings, when everyone was up and getting ready at the same time.

Steve stripped down, left his shirt and pants and socks in a heap on the tiled floor. When the bathroom began to cloud with steam, he pulled back the shower curtain and stepped inside. The water was satisfyingly scalding, hot enough to relax his muscles, and he took his time lathering himself up, scrubbing in and then rinsing out thick, foamy shampoo from his hair.

Steve’s hand went to turn off the water, but he stopped himself. It'd been awhile since he'd last gotten off, his room too hot and too stuffy to do anything. The apartment was empty. No one would walk in on him and try to start up a conversation. He brought his hand down between his thighs and stroked gently, in slow, little movements, until he was hard.

The shower’s spray beat down on Steve’s back, and he suddenly felt oversensitive, each drop of water rolling down his chest enough to make him squirm. He pinched and rubbed at his nipple, made himself gasp as he thrust into the tight circle of his fist. Already he was close, embarrassingly so, his thighs trembling. He cupped his balls, squeezed them, just for a little more relief.

He thought of Bucky, tried and failed to push the thoughts away, knowing that he’d feel guilty, later, if he focused on him. Still, Steve couldn’t shake it, couldn’t think of anything else but the way Bucky looked during their apartment’s weekend heat wave: tight briefs that weren’t his own, his smooth but thick thighs, stretched out in the darkness of his bedroom. The scar tissue on his shoulder where skin and metal prosthetic met. The way he ate those stupid alcoholic popsicles, wet and dripping; the tipsy haze in his eyes from both tequila and heat, how he tried to get Steve to eat out of his palm.

Steve sped up his hand, suddenly desperate, and imagined that Bucky, on that hot and lazy afternoon, had slipped his penis out of his boxers. That he was achingly hard, as aching as Steve was now, and had urged Steve to take him into his mouth. And Steve would’ve listened, would’ve sucked and swallowed him down, would’ve watched Bucky come, unload onto his tongue, even onto his face, if Bucky wanted. Steve pinched at his nipple again, circled the pad of his thumb around the head of his cock, rubbed his slit and felt the pre-ejaculate dripping from it.

Tilting his head back, letting his scalp soak and tingle under the water, Steve choked out a moan and came, spilling over his hand, messy between his fingers. He shook through it, hips still twitching after he finished.

Steve felt loose-limbed, relaxed but dizzy, as he shut off the water. He'd disobeyed the contract he'd signed just the other day—were there really any rules against fantasizing, though?—but at least some of that pent-up tension, the dirty thoughts gnawing at him since Saturday morning, had dissipated.

Steve pushed away the shower curtain and reached for his towel. Bucky stood at the sink, peering into the mirror and holding a razor. Horror and shame anchored itself at the bottom of Steve’s stomach.

“Christ, Buck,” Steve said, willing himself to act calm. “I didn't hear you come in.”

Steve yanked his towel off the rack and swiftly covered himself. He tried to slow his breathing, make it less obvious that he’d done anything but rinse off.

“Just got here a few seconds ago. Have a nice shower?”

“What? I wasn't— Yes. It was fine.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows. “Must've been hot. Your face is all red.”

“Shut up,” Steve mumbled.

“Could barely see, it was so steamy in here.”

“Shut up,” Steve repeated. In an attempt to escape further observations, or let himself become even more red in the face, Steve rushed out of the bathroom, leaving his discarded clothes behind. Bucky’s laughter echoed down the hall. Somehow, despite himself, Steve found himself back in his room, naked and breathless and laughing.


	3. pink wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Just say that I’m the cactus.”
> 
> Steve sighed and sat on the floor, across from Bucky. “You’re not the cactus,” he said.

In the cloudy light of morning, Steve prepared breakfast in the kitchen. No one else was awake. His meeting with the principal was at the end of the day—finally, after so many postponements—and he’d had at least two stress dreams about it during the night. Even worse, Steve had a feeling his stubbornness would send the meeting sailing south. Bucky had given him the idea to look at job listings—just in case—and Steve did so, all while biting his thumb and imagining what Sam would say if he did, in fact, quit over something so benign.

Benign in the grand scheme of things, at least. Steve knew the issue could be solved in the future. That over the years, the administration would change. And still, he couldn't convince himself to stay, to let his discontent stew silently inside him.

Steve poured small pools of pancake batter into the pan and waited until it bubbled up. The familiar sound of Sam’s footsteps echoed behind him.

“Wow,” Sam said, peering over Steve’s shoulder. “Pancakes?”

“Apparently I cook when I’m stressed,” Steve said. He flipped the last three pancakes onto a plate full of them. “My meeting is today.”

“I know. You decide what to say?”

“I don’t know if I can let go of my morals just because my boss disagrees with me, Sam.”

Sam sighed, slid some pancakes and scrambled eggs onto his own plate. “You love those kids. You love that school. All you gotta do is listen to her for now, get some outside input for next year, and see if you can change things.”

“If I wait it out this time, she’ll just keep delaying it,” Steve said. “Nothing will change. ”

The strong scent of coffee beans wafted in the air as Steve turned on the machine. He watched coffee drip into the clear carafe. Then he said, “The administration’s always been like this. It’s what we talk about in the faculty room, behind their backs. They’re more worried about money from parents than the actual education the kids get. And I hate that. A lot of us hate that.”

“Okay,” Sam said, taking a bite of his pancake. “I understand. Do what you need to do, Steve. It’s your choice.”

Steve ran his hand through his hair, stared down at his food. He’d spent an hour making all this, starving when he'd first woken up, and now he’d lost his appetite. “Thanks.”

“I’m serious.” Sam smiled, rubbed a hand along Steve’s arm. “I’m here for you no matter what. You know that.”

Nodding, Steve smiled back. He managed to stomach a few bites of eggs, a corner of a pancake. Already he itched to get to work, to hurry through the day and get the meeting over with.

“Oh, man,” Natasha called. Barefoot, she padded over to the kitchen, then grabbed a fork and quickly stabbed it into a pancake. “You’ve outdone yourself, Rogers. I’m gonna be late because of you.”

“It’s worth being late for. These are incredible,” Sam said. “Can you make blueberry next time?”

“If there ever is a next time, sure,” Steve said. “Waking up early sucks, but I gotta admit, I’m enjoying the praise.”

“I’d give you all the compliments you want for a batch of pancakes delivered to my room every morning,” Sam laughed.

Steve got up to make everyone’s coffee. With some hope prickling in the pit of his stomach, he grabbed a fourth mug for Bucky, just in case he managed to wake up and wander into the kitchen, slow and groggy, for a cup. Natasha grabbed a mug and shoved another pancake into her mouth, then left in a hurry.

“But how’s work going for you, Sam?” Steve asked, sipping at his coffee.

“God, you know. The girls all hate me.”

“I still can’t believe that.”

“I’m serious, man,” Sam said. “Yesterday they all laughed at me for wearing a printed shirt.”

“The one with the birds?”

“Don’t you start getting on my case about the bird shirt, too.”

Steve put up his hands. “I’m not! I like it.”

“Don’t lie to me, either,” Sam grumbled. Steve grinned and knocked him on the shoulder.

A door in the hallway creaked open and Bucky slumped out, shirtless and in sweats, his hair tied back messily. He yawned, grabbed a coffee, took a long sip—it was actually Steve’s, but Steve let it slide—then stared down at the plate of pancakes.

“Holy shit.” Bucky grabbed two with his hands and bit into both of them. “You made these, Steve? You’re amazing.”

“That’s gross, man,” Sam said. “Use a fork.”

“I got two perfectly good forks on the ends of my arms,” Bucky said through a mouthful of pancake.

There was still about ten minutes before Sam and Steve needed to head out to get to work on time, to beat the morning traffic. Sam offered to do the dishes, but Steve, feeling antsy, said he’d clean up everything.

On his way out, Sam wished Steve good luck. Steve exhaled, counting down his breath after he left, a trick he’d learned to calm his nerves, and placed a clean pan onto the dish rack. After Steve shrugged on his workbag, Bucky held him back, gripping his arm.

“I heard you and Sam talking,” Bucky said. “You gonna do it—compromise with the principal?”

Steve shrugged. “Not sure yet.”

“Yeah, right. You know exactly what you're gonna do. Just tell me. I’m on your team, either way.”

“Alright,” Steve said. He ducked his head down. Bucky still hadn’t loosened his grip on his arm. “I’m not. I already know she won’t listen to me. On the off chance she does, I’ll stay, but otherwise…”

Bucky let go of Steve’s arm, then, and gently shoved him towards the door. “Well, go do it, then.”

Steve laughed and gave him a quick nod, a silent goodbye. He jogged down the stairwell to meet up with Sam in the parking lot—they'd parked next to each other, as usual—for one last chat before they parted ways.

* * *

The meeting went as well as Steve had expected it to go. When he told his colleagues, they’d been unhappy but understanding, and then they’d wished him the best. By the beginning of the next school year, Steve would—hopefully—be somewhere else, working at school with administration who supported him and the morals he believed in, who focused on the children’s well being more than potential donations.

But Steve knew Sam was home, and that Nat was, too. He wasn’t sure about Bucky, who might be at the bar. Around five they’d be talking and watching TV in the living room, and around six or seven they’d be eating dinner. Steve didn’t want to tell Sam or Nat just yet, as if despite their unwavering support of him, their genuine love for him, they’d be disappointed in his decision.

So, on an impulse, Steve called Peggy and met her for dinner. He began to regret it just before she arrived at the restaurant, fearing it'd be strange, that Peggy only agreed out of pity and wanted nothing to do with him, that things wouldn't be the same. But Peggy was more than happy to see him, practically racing over to where Steve stood in front of the restaurant, their reunion all wide smiles and hugs.

The place had enough string-lights and well-dressed young adults to make Steve feel out of place until Peggy showed. Their small, round table had a flickering LED candle and a cactus plant in the middle of it. They caught up a bit, laughed nervously, ordered food and shared a single glass of white wine.

“I quit my job because I was mad,” Steve said, explaining it all to Peggy a while after their meals arrived. He stabbed his fork into a piece of pasta. “They all think of me as the responsible one. I woke up late one morning—just once—and they were shocked. And I just quit my job like it was nothing. Because I was mad at the head of school.”

Peggy smiled, her lips deep red with her favorite shade of lipstick, and bit at her straw. “It doesn’t exactly seem impulsive. That’s not the only reason you quit.”

“It’s the biggest reason,” Steve sighed.

Steve could barely sit still when they’d first gotten to their table, expecting unbearable awkwardness after the small talk ended. But they fell into easy conversation, Peggy ribbing at Steve with the same edge she’d had when they’d first met. In the low light of the restaurant, sitting across from each other and sharing a glass of white wine, it seemed that nothing had changed but a label, gently peeled off their relationship by the two of them.

“You try so hard to be this perfect, responsible person, the one who always has a plan,” Peggy said. “But you’ll always put the right thing first, Steve. Even if it means making a few sacrifices.”

“I know. I wish I didn’t,” Steve said. Peggy snorted a laugh, and then Steve said, “Okay, I don’t. A part of me is glad that I left, but I just—it’s gonna be hard to deal with.”

“Of course it’ll be hard!” Peggy said. “That was a fine job, and you’ve just quit it.”

Steve groaned. “Peggy.”

“Have you looked anywhere else?”

“A little,” Steve said. “My roommate convinced me to start looking just before I quit. There are a few places that look okay. And I have the summer.”

“Good.” She reached over to take a few pieces of Steve’s pasta, and after one bite, took a few more. “You ordered well. I almost want to switch plates. Who's this roommate?”

“Oh, just—Bucky. He was the last one I expected to get close to, but somehow… I dunno. I really like him. We get along well.”

Peggy raised her eyebrows. “Is he cute?”

“Hey, c’mon, Peg. I'm not moving on that quickly,” Steve said.

“Why not? It's been, what, six months?” Peggy shrugged. “You're deflecting, by the way. Answer the question.”

“I don't know. He's a bartender, and his hair’s too long. He sleeps a lot. I'm not sure if he believes in gravity.” Steve leaned forwards and feigned a disappointed look. “And he's my roommate, Peggy. That's a deal breaker.”

“Really? I thought not believing in a highly supported and quite basic scientific theory would be the deal breaker. But I'll support it, I suppose,” Peggy said.

Steve snickered. “I’ve been talking too much. How’ve you been, Peg?”

“Oh, fine. I’m still on for that principal position. I’ll be heading back to London in September.”

Steve smiled. “I’m glad. It’ll be nice going back to your roots.”

“Yes, it will. Although I feel horrible for dragging you all across the country, only to go back where I started,” Peggy said.

“Hey, no.” Steve put his hand over Peggy’s, squeezed it gently, held back a laugh. “I think I’m a little worse. I just quit the job I broke up with you over.”

“We’re both a bit awful, then.”

They finished their dinner and their wine and shared a small slice of chocolate cake before splitting the bill. Outside, in the cool summer air, they stood on the sidewalk, hesitant to leave each other. Cars breezed past, people hurried by, and the the restaurant’s waves of noise and music seemed much louder, somehow, from the outside.

Steve and Peggy stood close together, and Steve felt an urge to put an arm around her, to hug her, purely out of habit. Instead, he turned to her and said, “This was nice. Thanks for indulging me.”

“Oh, no need to thank me. I had fun. And it was good seeing you again,” Peggy said. “I think you’re the first ex I’ve had who I genuinely feel I’m still friends with.”

“Maybe that’s because we were friends beforehand.”

“And all throughout, really.” She smiled, and pulled Steve into a gentle hug. “Alright, we should both get home. I know you’re avoiding your roommates.”

Steve shook his head. “Can’t deny that. At least let me walk you to your car.”

It’d gotten late, the sky turning from deep blue to black, all the streetlights turned on, lighting the city in buzzing fluorescents. They walked quietly, Peggy taking careful steps and looking up at the darkened palm trees, while Steve looked at her, smiling soft.

To Steve’s relief, the apartment was quiet when he arrived home. He turned the doorknob so that it wouldn’t click when he shut it, the well-recognized sound that someone had returned home. After he slipped off his shoes, he headed directly to Bucky’s room, as if it was the only natural choice. He opened his door without knocking.

Bucky sat on his bed, upright and leaned against his headboard, drinking out of a mug and watching something on his laptop. He didn’t seemed phased by Steve waltzing in without permission.

“Hey,” Bucky said. “Where were you?”

“Got dinner with Peggy,” Steve said. He crawled onto the bed and sat beside Bucky.

Mockingly, Bucky whistled, and Steve bumped up against him with his shoulder, knocking him slightly off balance. “It wasn’t weird?” Bucky asked.

“Nope,” Steve said. The laptop played an episode of some cooking challenge. “It was nice. Just—nice. Like we were just good friends again.”

“You’re a lucky man, Rogers. Not everyone can do that.” Bucky tapped a button on his laptop, lowering its volume. “And how’d your meeting go? You didn’t punch out the principal, did you?”

“God, what? No,” Steve said. “I did quit, though.”

“Aw, I knew you would. Proud of you.” Bucky grinned. He spoke as if Steve had asked for a raise, or something similarly good-natured.

“I have a feeling you’re the only person who’s gonna to say that to me, Buck.”

“That’s ‘cause I wholeheartedly support you and everything you do, pal. Also,” he said, sipping at his mug, “I don’t make such good decisions myself.”

Steve sighed. So Bucky, on some level, still thought it was a poor decision. “There it is. Okay. Are you drinking coffee right now?”

“Nope. It’s rosé. You want some?” He held out his mug and swirled it around below Steve’s nose. “I drank half the bottle already.”

“Jesus,” Steve said. He took the mug and swallowed down the remaining wine. It was surprisingly smooth and not overly sweet, despite the cheap price he knew Bucky had bought it at. “Thanks. S’not too bad.”

They drank quietly, passing the mug back and forth, Bucky refilling it to the brim quite often. Steve’s eyes got heavy and unfocused the more he drank. He found himself giggling—much to his embarrassment—while Bucky’s recounted his daytime shift at the bar, which always brought an odd crowd.

At some point Steve had gotten onto his back, arms resting above his head, with Bucky nudged up beside him. They’d tried watching TV once they’d finished their wine, but neither of them could focus much, and now the laptop was pushed towards the end of the bed, acting as background noise. Bucky was on his back now, too, squinting up at his phone, his head nearly leaning onto Steve’s chest.

After Bucky tapped out a few text messages—it didn’t take him long, considering his penchant for crafting absurdly short messages—he rolled onto his side and looked up at Steve. Then he put his hand on Steve’s stomach. The warmth of the metal always took him by surprise.

“You think Sam and Nat would freak out if they walked in on us like this?” Bucky asked.

Steve smiled, let his fingers dance along Bucky’s prosthetic hand, feel along the plating. “No. We’re not really doing anything,” he said. “And if they did freak out, I’d just tell ‘em that I quit my job. That’d distract them for long enough.”

“I told you,” Bucky mumbled, “they’re not gonna be mad that you quit. Stop worrying so much.”

“I know. Hard for me to turn that part of my brain off, sometimes.”

Without warning, Bucky sat up and leaned over Steve, the same way he had during the heat wave, their noses almost touching. Bucky’s hair fell over his face, and his eyes were big yet calm, sleepy. “Maybe I can you help with that.”

Steve laughed. He could feel Bucky’s breath ghosting across his face. “Was that supposed to be a pick-up line? That’s horrible, Buck.”

Bucky pressed a soft kiss against Steve’s lips. Nothing special or intense—just holding there, still. When Bucky broke away, Steve’s eyes fluttered open. He hadn’t noticed he’d shut them in the first place.

“Oh,” Steve breathed.

Bucky kissed his jaw. “This alright?”

Tilting his head a bit to the side, Steve nodded. “Yeah.”

Bucky practically mounted Steve, and then kissed him again. Even tried biting, gently, at Steve’s bottom lip. With a weak moan from the back of his throat, Steve parted his lips, let Bucky slip his tongue inside, and then they were thoroughly kissing, messy and impatient. Steve sifted his fingers through Bucky’s hair, scratched at his scalp, could tell Bucky liked it by the way he rocked into his hip.

They broke apart again, and Bucky dodged over to mouth at Steve’s neck, quick little kisses that trailed up behind his ear.

“Buck, wait,” Steve said. He was using teeth, now, to nip at his jaw and just below it. Steve sighed, arched a bit, tugged at Bucky’s hair. “Oh—wait a second, Bucky.”

Bucky stopped. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, just.” Steve exhaled shakily, caught his breath. “We should probably, you know, talk about this.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. He leaned down and gave Steve’s earlobe a quick, sharp bite. “Okay. Let’s talk.”

“Because we shouldn’t—” Steve interrupted himself to kiss Bucky again, just for a moment, because he needed it. “We shouldn’t be doing this. With the whole No Nail Oath thing.”

Bucky pressed his mouth to Steve’s, even quicker than the previous kiss. “Uh-huh,” he said.

“I’m serious, Buck. They’d find out in an instant.” Still, their foreheads touched, lips ghosting over each other’s. Like Bucky couldn’t bear to pull away, tidally locked to Steve, moving and shifting towards him in every direction.

Bucky kissed just behind Steve’s ear, and Steve gasped, gripped at his neck. “Okay,” Bucky said, breathing hot against into his skin, “You wanna stop, then?”

Steve shook his head. “Not really.”

“Pretend it never happened?” He pressed another kiss to his neck.

“Buck,” Steve said. A sinking feeling came over him at the mere thought, heavy, like an anchor in his stomach. “No. I don’t want that.”

With a small, sad smile, Bucky sat up, still straddling his hips. Steve could handle the weight of him.

“Why not?” Bucky asked. “It’d be easier.”

“Because I—I like you, Bucky. It wouldn’t be easier for me.”

Because so much had happened, more than the kiss. The gazes, the words and the teasing, the spilled beer in the dark, the falling asleep on the shoulder blade. The sweat soaked talk, late afternoon with the orange sky, in Bucky’s bed.

“Well, I like you, too,” Bucky said, breathing out a heavy sigh. “It’s either tell Sam and Nat, forget about it all, or keep it a secret. And I know you’re a terrible liar.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to do what you want to do.”

“C’mon, Bucky.”

“Alright. I say we let it sit for a while. See how we feel. That way you’re not lying about anything, you’re just keepin’ quiet about it.”

See how they felt. Steve knew how he felt. He bit his lip and shimmied until he sat upright, too, with Bucky still between his spread-open legs.

“Okay,” Steve said. “That’s probably the best option.”

“Yeah.”

Steve sat up. “I guess I should head to bed, then.”

“You could stay here, if you want.”

“I got work tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Bucky said. “Right.”

“Good night, Buck,” Steve said, pulling himself off the bed. His hand lingered on the doorknob.

“Night, Steve.”

* * *

The following day went fine enough. Steve delivered his health talk to the fifth grade, suppressed any urges to mention same-gender attraction because he’d promised the principal he wouldn’t. He managed to keep his mind off of Bucky for the most part, too. In those quiet in-between moments, though, he thought of Bucky’s mouth on his, the steady pressure of his body on his hips.

Later, after he finished work, he and Sam planned to spend the afternoon and evening together. Steve wasn’t sure how long he could be in the apartment, denying everything, pretending nothing had happened. Because Bucky was right: Steve was a horrible liar, always obvious through anxious gestures and impulsive, poorly planned lies. If no one got the truth out of him first, he’d provide it on his own.

Steve waited in the apartment for Sam to come home. He’d bought some extra time getting groceries, and was already in his gym clothes, putting things away in the fridge and the cupboards when Bucky walked in.

“Morning,” Bucky said. He pressed a kiss to the back of Steve’s neck.

“It’s four in the afternoon, Buck.”

“Is it?” Bucky rested his chin on Steve’s shoulder, encircled his arms around his waist. “You smell good.”

“That’s because I actually shower,” Steve said. “Hey, I got you something at the store.”

Bucky pinched his side. “Beer?

“Well, yes. And,” Steve said, wrangling himself out of Bucky’s grasp to pick up a potted plant, “I got you this.”

The cactus was small and spiny, just beginning to stretch out towards the light. Bucky took it from him, held it in his palm, looked at it like it could break at any moment. Then he looked up at Steve, eyes unsure.

“A cactus?”

“Your room is just so dark,” Steve said. He shrugged, offered Bucky a shy smile. “Thought a plant might brighten it up.”

“So you just… got me a cactus?”

Steve thought it’d be a nice gesture, but now he felt self-conscious, like he’d offended Bucky simply by purchasing him a gift. “Yeah. I dunno. I was thinkin’ about you.”

Bucky frowned. He put both his hands on the glass pot of the plant, and looked down at it, and turned it in his hands. “What do you mean you were thinking about me?”

With his mouth slightly agape, Steve stared at Bucky, waiting for him to answer his own question, but he only avoided Steve’s gaze. “What do I—Buck, do you not remember last night?” Steve asked. “Of course I was thinking about you. I thought you’d like it.”

“I know, I just. Uh,” Bucky said. The front door rattled, and suddenly Bucky started towards his bedroom. “You’re hanging out with Sam today, right? I’ll see you later.”

Sam opened the door just as Bucky closed his. Bewildered, Steve stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring blankly at Sam as he tried to process what just happened. There’d been more he wanted to say: that the cactus was actually a succulent, a Dudleya, which thrived on windowsills, like the bare one Bucky’s room. Or that he knew Bucky could never keep a normal plant alive, and thought a cactus would be easy enough. That even if it did die, he could replant the leaf and watch it grow again.

“Yo,” Sam said, tossing his bag to the floor. “You mind if we cut our gym time in half today? I’m tired, and honestly, I just wanna get a smoothie.”

Steve broke away from his thoughts, put on a smile. “Fine with me. Bet I can beat your mile time.”

“You always outrun me, Steve, there’s no point in making bets.”

“Aw, don’t give up now. You might beat me some day.”

“Unbelievable,” Sam muttered. “I’m the professional.”

* * *

Their gym date was mostly quiet, some small-talk scattered between them every couple of minutes. Steve finished his first mile on the treadmill about thirty seconds before Sam finished his, and Sam squirted his water bottle at him from the treadmill over, nearly tripping over himself in the process.

They left, sweat on their brows and adrenaline still pumping, after only an hour. Sam spent his days training people, anyway, and as long as Steve did some kind of exercise at least once a day—with heavier workouts, on his own time, throughout the week—he was happy, clear-headed.

At the juice place, they each ordered a green smoothie, the largest size available. The cashiers always got a kick out of seeing Steve and Sam in the shop—they knew their names, now—standing out amidst the usual LA hipster crowd. The weather was cooling, so they sat outside, facing the busy street, the setting sun in their eyes. The occasional breeze felt nice on Steve’s too-hot skin, drying out his sweat.

Looking past Sam, Steve said, “I quit my job.”

“Of course you did,” Sam said. He slurped at his smoothie. “I was waiting for you to tell me. Good for you, man, seriously.”

“You’re not disappointed?”

Sam shrugged. “Why would I be?”

“I dunno. You and Nat have your lives pretty much together, and I started worrying about what you’d think of me if I quit. That you'd think it was stupid.”

“It wasn’t stupid, Steve. It mattered to you, and you’ll be happier now that you’re out of that place. And, by the way, I definitely do not have my life together,” Sam said, breaking into a smile. “The girls I work with despise me. Today they made fun of the coffee I ordered.”

“Again? Was it the iced soy vanilla latte?”

“Yeah,” Sam huffed. “They all order it black, then act like I’m the weird one.”

“I mean, we’re in modern times,” Steve said. “There’s nothing wrong with a man getting a coffee drink with a ridiculously long name.”

“You better not be making fun of me, too, Steve. I’ll kick your ass.”

“I’m not! I’ve ordered it before. It’s good.”

“Fuck you,” Sam said, throwing a wadded up ball of napkin at Steve’s head.

“You've been real mean to me today,” Steve said, tossing it right back. “You're confusing me with Bucky.”

Steve swirled his straw through the green sludge in his plastic cup. He hated seeing Sam upset, even if it was mostly in jest, and wondered if there was anything he could do to make those coworkers see Sam the way he saw him.

“Anyways,” Sam said, “I promised Nat I’d tell her you quit once I officially got the truth outta you.”

“Hey,” Steve said, “I supplied the truth on my own. Did you two seriously know before I ever said anything?”

“First of all, Nat knows everything,” Sam said, thumbs quickly tapping out a text. “Don’t ever try to hide anything from her, ever. And you were basically avoided us all yesterday, so we had a feeling.”

Steve drank the rest of his smoothie, stared at the little green flecks at the bottom of the cup. With his eyes still on his phone, Sam tossed his own empty cup into the trashcan behind Steve. He tried to play it off cool, but Steve saw the upturned corners of his mouth, the suppressed giddiness.

Steve’s own phone began to buzz—it was Bucky, which was strange, because he always stuck to texting—but Steve declined the call, not in the mood to talk to him or to accidentally reveal anything to Sam.

As if telepathic, Sam asked, “By the way, what’s going on with you and Bucky?”

A wave of panic coursed through Steve, and tried to play it off by taking another sip of his smoothie. It was empty, though, and only made an awful, loud noise. “We’re not—I don’t know what you mean,” Steve said. “I got him a cactus.”

Sam blinked. “Okay,” Sam said, slowly. “You’ve just been visiting his room a lot, that’s all. Did you seriously buy him a cactus?”

“I don’t think he liked it,” Steve muttered. If Sam and Nat could immediately tell that Steve had quit his job, they must have strong suspicions that something was up between him and Bucky. Now, though, Steve didn’t have to outright lie. Whatever happened was over—he must’ve scared Bucky off, being so eager—and there was no reason to bring it up.

“That’s because Bucky’s an idiot. He’s a sweetheart, kinda, but he’s an idiot,” Sam said. “He doesn’t do well with blatant affection. S’why I mess with him all the time.”

“I wasn’t trying to be affectionate,” Steve said, feeling defensive. “I just got him a gift. Like when I bought you that bag of cookies the other day.”

“Yeah, keep that up and I definitely won’t beat your five-and-a-half minute mile,” Sam said. “They were damn good cookies, though.”

When they got up to leave, Steve checked his phone again. Three missed calls, all from Bucky. Sam peered over his shoulder, scoffed, then said he hoped Bucky hadn’t caught the apartment on fire.

* * *

Sam went to shower, and Natasha was still at work, so Steve took the opportunity to burst into Bucky’s room. He sat on the floor with the cactus between his legs and a six pack of beers by his side, with only three bottles left. All the curtains were drawn, and the darkness made Steve irrationally angry, so he stormed over to the windows and opened them, let the late afternoon light stream in.

Steve stood above Bucky and opened his mouth to speak, but Bucky got a word in first. “I get it, Steve,” he said. “I’m the cactus.”

“What?”

“If you put me in a desert, I’d grow some needles, too.” Bucky tipped his beer over, let some of it dribble out onto the cactus.

“Buck, I wanna talk to you.” Steve stared down at him, but Bucky kept his bleary gaze on the cactus. “Are you drunk?”

“Just say that I’m the cactus.”

Steve sighed and sat on the floor, across from Bucky. “You’re not the cactus,” he said. He took the beer out of Bucky’s loose grasp and set it aside. Steve thought maybe he should drop the subject, save it for later, because a conversation with Bucky tipsy probably wouldn’t go very far. “I want to—I want to talk about the two of us. If we should tell Sam and Nat.”

Bucky snorted. “Why?”

A heavy feeling of embarrassment twisted in Steve’s stomach. Bucky’s laugh sounded derisive, like Steve was already too invested in the possibility of them becoming anything more. He felt his face get hot and red.

“Okay,” Steve said. He bit his lip. “Never mind. I’m sorry, I think I—I think I misread this whole thing. We can just pretend it never happened, like you suggested.”

“I don’t get it,” Bucky said. He sniffed, wiped at his nose, looking irritated. “The fucking cactus. I walked around the grocery store for forty-five minutes, man. After you and Sam left. I don’t even spend that long in the grocery store for myself. I couldn’t figure out what to get you.”

Steve tilted his head. He’d been about to get up, to lock himself away in his room, hide there without dinner until he fell asleep. Seeing Bucky babble like this made Steve settle back down.

“You don’t need to get me anything in return, Buck,” Steve said, softly, so his wavering voice wouldn’t betray him. “It was just a stupid gift. I bought it because I thought you’d like it. I’m sorry. Forget about it.”

“No, don’t apologize,” Bucky said. He groaned and covered his eyes. “God damn it. I don’t want to forget about anything.”

Steve began to fiddle with the hem of his shirt. He didn’t understand what Bucky wanted, or what he was saying, and a panic bubbled up in his chest, in his throat. “Okay,” Steve said.

“It’s just that—you do stuff like this, like giving me your coffee even though I know it’s yours, and making me do my laundry, and keeping me company at three a.m. when I can’t sleep,” Bucky said. He kept his hand over his eyes, curling up into himself, like he was scared. “I don’t get it. Why you’d do that for me.”

“Because I like you, Buck,” Steve said. Breathless, Steve inched towards Bucky, sat next to him and rested his back against the bed.

Bucky shook his head. “You picked the wrong guy, Steve,” he said. “I’m no good at that stuff. I’m only gonna let you down.”

“God, c’mere.” Steve put an arm around Bucky, pulled him in close. He tensed up, just a bit, before burying his face into Steve’s neck. “You’re not gonna let me down.”

“I will.”

“All those nights when I was up late with you, it was because talking to you was the only way I could get any sleep. And when I said I’d make you coffee, I did it because I wanted to see you in the mornings. Felt like I didn’t see you enough, and I—I liked seeing you,” Steve said. He rubbed Bucky’s back. “Sorry, I’m being embarrassing. Weird.”

“You quit a job you loved because of me,” Bucky mumbled into Steve’s shirt. “What other stupid shit would happen if we were together all the time?”

“I quit that job because I wanted to, Bucky. I’m saying all this because I want to, too. And I bought you a gift today because I was thinking about you, and I wanted to make you happy.”

Bucky laughed, though it sounded a bit broken, almost like a sob. “You’re a sap.”

“I know. But it’s true.”

Bucky turned his head, then rested his cheek on Steve’s shoulder. “I called you twice at the market. Stood in front of the ice cream section for twenty minutes like an idiot. Then I came home, drank three beers, and called you again, because I was so pissed about the cactus.”

“I was wondering why you called.” Steve trailed his nails along Bucky’s back. “Buck, I can take the cactus back if you hate it that much.”

“No,” Bucky said, firmly. “I want it. It looks nice.”

“Alright. Just don’t pour beer into it again.”

Chuckling softly, still sniffling just a bit, Bucky pressed a kiss into Steve’s neck. “Aren’t plants like humans? They’d like beer, I bet.”

“What? No, I don’t think that’s how it works,” Steve said. His hand drifted up to Bucky’s nape, and he scratched there, played with his hair. “You can sing to it. No beer.”

“I ain’t singing to a plant, Steve.”

They were quiet until Steve asked, still nervous, “Are we gonna go tell Nat and Sam?”

“We probably should,” Bucky said. “And, uh, take a vote, or whatever the oath says.”

“I don’t think either of them could do something so cold as just voting on our… relationship. Whatever this is. ”

“Relationship,” Bucky affirmed. Steve’s heart beat a little faster, in a gentle way. He wondered if Bucky, leaned up into him, could feel it. Bucky tied his hair back, a little nervous habit of his. “Are you sure about all this, Steve?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, voice soft. “I’m sure of it. I’d do anything, Buck. I’d move out, if everyone thought that was best.”

Bucky scoffed. “You’re not moving out. You love it here. You love Sam and Nat.”

“I’m just saying, just in case they’re not—in case they don’t think it’s a good idea. I’m the newest one here,” Steve explained. “It’d be easier for me to leave. And what’ll Nat do without your cocktails? What’ll Sam do without you around to tease? He’d cry, Buck. I know it.”

“No, he wouldn’t. Shut up,” Bucky laughed. “Neither of us are moving out, Steve. They’ll come around. We’ll make ‘em. Threaten them, use your moves from the days when you'd beat down bullies.”

“Absolutely not. I’m not the tiny kid with butterfly punches anymore, I could really hurt someone.” Steve smiled into the top of Bucky’s head, into his hair, and gave him a kiss there. “You sure about all this, too?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “I’m sure. I’m not good at talking like you are, can’t say all that nice stuff like you do. But I’m sure. I’d do anything, too, Steve.”

They sat there on the floor, drenched in the beige evening light. Summer meant it didn’t get dark till real late, till almost nine. Less darkness for them to hide under, now. Bucky put his mouth on Steve’s neck and kept it there, sucking a bruise, and Steve was too busy arching into him to tell him it was a bad idea, to leave a mark so obvious. Bucky said it wouldn’t mark, he wasn’t biting too hard, and then nipped at his skin.

Pressed up against the bed, tailbones digging uncomfortably into the carpet, they rubbed and shuddered against each other, Steve petting Bucky all over, Bucky holding tight onto Steve’s waist. Then he snuck a hand between Steve’s thighs and squeezed his cock, gently, through his athletic pants.

“Hate your stupid workout clothes,” Bucky said.

“Don’t be a jerk,” Steve said, breathless, shivering beneath Bucky’s grasp.

“They’re too tight,” Bucky explained. “Or you’re too big. I’m always starin’ at your chest, or your ass, and I feel like a pervert.”

“Oh, God, Buck.”

“Sam, too,” Bucky mumbled.

“I’m gonna tell him you said that.” Steve’s laugh turned to a choked out moan when Bucky bit at him again, sharp and wonderful.

“Don’t you dare,” Bucky said. He slipped his right hand beneath Steve’s waistband, got a gasp out of him. “I’d never hear the end of it. And he’d act like he doesn’t stare at me, also.”

“Don’t know if I wanna keep talkin’ about Sam while we do this,” Steve breathed. In short, little movements, he circled his hips, pushed his cock into Bucky’s hand.

“Yeah? You’re still hard as hell, though, you liar.” Bucky swiped his thumb over the head, rubbed in the moisture there. “Wet, too.”

With his prosthetic hand, Bucky reached down and pulled his own cock out, and Steve groaned just looking at it—shorter than his own, but thicker—in its stark contrast to the metal. Bucky pressed his whole body against Steve’s. Still making soft, breathless sounds, Steve wrapped his hand around the both of them, his grip just a little too tight.

He started off in languid strokes, moving his wrist slow while staring at Bucky, like in awe, at his open mouth, his half-shut eyes, his eyebrows knitted together. But they became impatient, erratic, and Steve began to jerk them off in earnest, at a speed he’d use in his own bedroom, in the shower, when he really needed it.

Bucky ground against Steve, practically on top of him, biting at his neck like he couldn’t stop himself. Then he moved to Steve’s ear, grabbed the back of his short hair, pulled at it a bit, making Steve cry out. “Want to fuck you,” Bucky gasped.

Steve felt dizzy. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew they weren’t going to get that far, but still he nodded, offered his neck for Bucky to bite at some more, and begged for it. They thrust up against each other, too aching to slow down and keep their promises, and Steve came, hard and long, over his fist and onto Bucky’s shirt. Bucky looked down at him, wide-eyed, and the snapping of his hips lost their rhythm, frantic.

“Fuck, Steve,” Bucky said, voice rough, moaning shakily. He came only moments after Steve, and Steve stroked him through it, until the last pearl of come leaked out from his slit.

As they cooled down, breathing loudly, still heaped on top of each other, Bucky groaned, “Shit. We’ll have to—next time.”

Steve laughed, giddy. “Yeah. When we’re both a little more prepared, maybe.”

* * *

After Bucky changed and Steve smoothed his hair down as best he could, Steve stepped back into the living room, calmly picked up the remote, and flipped through TV channels. Once they all congregated into the room, their normal routine before dinner time, Steve would break the news.

While Steve steeled himself, Natasha, seated in the armchair, looked up from her book and exclaimed, “Oh my God, Rogers. Do legal contracts mean nothing to you?”

The hairs on the back of Steve’s neck stood up. He sputtered for a few seconds until he formed full words, and they came out as a lie—a bad one, of course—he was so caught off guard. “I, uh. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You and Barnes clearly made out,” she said. She narrowed her eyes and set her book down on the coffee table. “Multiple times, even. What do you have to say for yourselves?”

With a shrug, Bucky said, “Not much. We make a good pair.”

Steve sat on the couch, quietly panicking about how this would go down. Red-faced, too, because of Bucky’s nonchalance. Sam, off in the kitchen, hadn’t even said anything yet, just stood there, drinking water and watching them.

Natasha blew out a long, slow breath. “Alright. Just don’t do anything weird on the couch, or in the shower. Or in the kitchen.”

“You got it,” Bucky said, biting into leftover sandwich he’d taken from the fridge.

Steve blinked. “What, that’s it? Nat, you pulled out the contract and made me sign it. I thought you’d at least, you know, fight back a bit.”

“What, do you wanna fight? It’s fine, Rogers. You two are cute, I guess.”

“Very cute,” Sam agreed, walking over. He patted Bucky on the shoulder. “Never thought you’d score someone as good as Steve, man.”

“Thanks,” Bucky said, still chewing his food. “Me neither.”

Steve knew he was blushing bright, and he covered his face, unsure what to do with himself. “I hate all of you. I was really freaking out about this. I even told Bucky I’d move out if I had to.”

“There’s no way in hell I’d let you leave me here with these two. I dunno how I survived before you moved in,” Sam said. “I’m happy for both of you. But don’t come crawling to me for relationship advice, ‘cause I don’t got a solution for Bucky’s snoring.”

“I don't snore!”

“Then what's the horrible noise I hear every night? ‘Cause I thought it was a literal bear for a while.”

“Well get earplugs, then. Not my problem.”

Sam and Bucky looked two seconds away from a half-assed slap fight, so Steve said, “Hey, Nat. How did you know, when I first walked in?”

“I told you,” Sam said, “Natasha knows everything.”

Natasha smirked. “No, I only act like I know everything.” She pointed to her own neck, then said, “You have a hickey, Rogers.”

Steve clapped a hand over the mark, and thumped Bucky on the back of the head when he began to laugh. “I told you not to do that,” he said.

“But it made telling them a lot easier, didn’t it?”

They sat cozied up and comfortable in the dim living room, the sky not yet dark despite the late hour. No tensions hanging anywhere or between anyone. Bucky and Sam shared a beer, and Sam complained about the spit Bucky left on the mouth of the bottle. Natasha had long abandoned her book, chose to watch a cooking show instead, one that Bucky liked. Steve leaned against the arm of the couch and, in the dusky blue light of the apartment, saw home inside each of them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i intended this to be a longer work, but because i am currently out of the country, i decided to cut it a bit short. i wouldn't have time to work on further chapters, and didn't want to leave this fic incomplete, just hanging with the possibility of it never finishing.
> 
> excuses aside, i hope y'all liked this! i'd love to make it a collection once i return, with short one-off chapters set in this verse. we'll see ;-)


End file.
